


When I Struggle To Speak

by ExploretheEcccentricities



Series: So I Can Help You Heal [2]
Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Fluff and Angst, Gen, He's Been A Good Boi, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Panic Attacks, Post-Flynnposter, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred, temporary deafness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:33:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22853287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExploretheEcccentricities/pseuds/ExploretheEcccentricities
Summary: He clings to it all because he can't help but be uncertain, so he doesn't know what to say."Listen to Me" in Varian's POV but a bit longer, darker, and with some extra angst.
Relationships: Quirin & Varian (Disney)
Series: So I Can Help You Heal [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642591
Comments: 19
Kudos: 188





	When I Struggle To Speak

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for all of your wonderful comments on the previous story (and bearing with me through my terrible writing lol)!  
> As promised, I give you... Varian's POV!  
> This extends to a little bit before Flynnposter, and generally talks about Varian recovering from..well, you know.  
> It also has some extra bits. Because I am a bad person who likes the extra bits.  
> He exaggerates what happened...a lot, but this will all be addressed, don't worry.  
> Any and all repetition was purposeful.  
> Yes, I neglected some grammar on purpose. Yes, I wrote this instead of sleeping. Yes, I Stan the table. No, I have no restraint.

Certainty was a salvation that relinquished Varian’s ever-returning spirals into the past, a renewed tool he now relied on for his every move so he never had to relive that dark time in his life.

As a scientist, Varian knew a thing or two about certainty. Before, he just hadn’t made it a priority, his insatiable desire to prove himself to everyone reigning his conscience and evincing the small doubts that poked irritably at the back of his mind. Doubts, he reasoned, were for those who did not calculate their chances.

Was there a chance of explosion? Of course! What great thing didn’t have the capacity to implode under certain conditions? If people stopped making things better because they were afraid of explosions, how would anyone get anywhere?

The trick here was to calculate his risks, how many chances he could cram in and all the possibilities he could implement.

As long as no one got hurt…as long as there was no irreparable damage…he could factor in his mistakes, no matter how many he made.

After the incident with the amber, however, Varian had begun to question himself. There were now conditions, and limits, and consequences, and endless worries in every factor of his every move.

…

The faintest glimpse at the remnants of his old lab struck him with attestations of a dark abyss in time that clung to the back of his mind like an unforgivingly solid amber that threatened to consume his sanity, devouring all he knew to be true and all he remembered to be dear. Like a surreal mosaic painted in a wave of inspiration yet that now stood ashamed and alone, his lab dazzled with the sprawled disconnected pieces of an apparatus he had thrown in sheer despair, rotting amongst the endless piles of crumpled and shredded notes, littered between the cracked shards of glass from flasks shattered in blinding fits of rage.

Of course, all of that in addition to the finishing touch: the familiar scent of smoke from another one of his failures being undone, sizzling in his nostrils and caressing his face tauntingly. The burning amber.

Quirin had promised that they would renovate his lab together, but Varian knew what he had to do.

He could not afford to get his father involved in any more of his messes, whether he be protecting him or helping him clean up.

So, even though he knew it to be futile, Varian had silently waited until Quirin had went to the fields and steeled himself before marching into the old lab with a broomstick and mop, throwing his aching limbs into furiously scrubbing and sweeping away his mistake-his mistakes-the remnants of his multitude of failures.

Varian vaguely remembered reading, in a hazy flash as he had once flipped frantically through his old chemistry textbooks, that amber was fossilized resin used for healing in folk medicine, particularly for absorbing pain and promoting self-assurance. He also conveniently remembered barking out something between a frustrated howl and an insane laugh, too riddled with crippling guilt and despair to have pondered the irony of the situation. It seemed stupid-at the time anyway. How was any of that supposed to help his dad?

No, this amber couldn’t go to waste. Although Varian wanted nothing more than to throw the awful junk away, he remembered that pine trees didn’t grow in this side of town, and if the chemical counterparts of amber could produce something as useful as kerosene, surely he could recreate the formula and use it should something important resurface!

When Quirin came home and showed no indication of remembering the promise, Varian remained silent and watched his father obliviously walk past the lab, thankful that another shameful part of him had remained hidden.

...

The first time Varian had picked up his trusty screwdriver since the incident was the first time he had held a proper tool since imprisonment with a purpose other than rage, to pull apart and reconnect fragments of a whole back together, a trivial contrast to the days when he concocted corrosive acids and bath bombs and memory gases under the looming figure of people who claimed to value him for his skills-people who said they would help but only made things worse-

Varian’s hands had trembled as he remembered holding it last: when his vision flared with a disconsolate stubbornness and endless vexation as he desperately threw in and took out parts to complete his large screw. For a full minute, he was staring at it with wide, unseeing eyes, before the world burst into a chimera of bright unrelenting orange as he gazed into the solid substance that fossilized his beloved father, glowing wisps of gentle gold as Rapunzel’s hair sent futile flashes of scintillating light up the rock and floated into the night sky, bold jolts of dark alight in a flicker of iridescent blue that tripped his automaton and tossed him forward as he frantically cranked the controls and screamed in anguish, and omniscient flashes of neon green fire as his first friend risked her life cleaning up his mess-after he had threatened her kingdom-none of which stung more than the agonizing tears that consumed it all-it was his fault, his fault, all his fault.

He suddenly gasped in utter horror, wheezing as though he had sprinted the entire lapse of time in the full minute. He threw the thing-this awful thing that his awful hand had touched when he felt awful- as though it burnt his hand, and the screwdriver loudly clattered to the floor. Shuddering with every breath, he collapsed on his knees, his eyes still fixated intensely on the mess before him, his tears silently falling still.

What if he went wrong again?

What if Dad tried to save him again, got hurt because of him again?

What would happen after another invention of his inevitably exploded?

Perhaps he would set aside more time taking care of the risks. Inventing could wait... he had to plan it first, make it, check it, recheck, remake, start over. Whatever it took, he was certain that he would do it, and get it right.

…

He had inventor’s block-was that a thing? He could make it a thing…no, he couldn’t make anything, not as long as he had this stupid block!

Inventing was dear to him, but Varian now dreaded it because after seeing what had become of his last mistake, he wasn’t sure how many more he could afford to make without compromising someone’s life, trust, or-even worse-his own sanity.

...

But when all was said and done, he remembered Rapunzel and his father.

Rapunzel trusted him.

She had allowed him out of that dark, disheartening cell that had become his second home. She had pulled him along despite the others’ scorn, trusted him as he relayed half-hearted sentiments, fumbled clumsily with his chemicals, struggled in vain to fulfill his empty promises, and offered himself as they hung off a ship that could decimate the slumbering city. She had trusted him to wake her from the trance of a deathly incantation, only concerned with fulfilling her promise to him to hesitate and wonder what would become of herself.

She trusted Varian even after he had done nothing to deserve it, afterwards offering work for him to do and ideas to pursue alongside opportunities to spend with the rest of them at the castle so that he didn’t feel so alone anymore.

And alongside Rapunzel had been his father, who had never given him so much as an accusing glint in his gaze, an impatient scowl, or stern talking-to since the incident.

The man who had willingly opened up his arms to Varian, grasped him tightly to a still-beating heart when his last conscious moment had been of his son turning his back to him and running away, frantically calling as he was slowly encased, trapped alone for what he had believed to be his final moments in his disaster child’s dark, cold lab all because he didn’t ever listen.

The man who patiently continued to put up with Varian even after he had nearly killed him, who tirelessly helped clean his clumsy messes, who painstakingly ensured he was safe, who loved him despite the awful things he knew he was capable of and held him so securely without hesitance, as though it was he who needed his son more than the other way around.

But alongside the strength it imbued him with, their faith also heightened Varian’s anxieties. He couldn’t let any of them down, now that they trusted him so! He couldn’t afford to lose what he had just earned-no, not earned, regained.

Perhaps he could give up inventing…that way, he wouldn’t screw up at all, and if no one expected anything of him, no one would ever be disappointed in him.

_But that could very well happen if you did nothing_ , a part of him pointed out. _They’ll think you foolish for giving up something so great because you were afraid. It’s a little selfish, don’t you think? And how could you even think of giving up alchemy?_

They had faith in him because they were certain, and perhaps he should have faith in himself.

To grasp that certainty with confidence once more, and to establish that certainty that those he loved were willing to put in him, Varian did what any responsible and matured son/friend/ _scientist_ would do.

He calculated every risk and option imaginable: the possibility of the explosion, the possibility of containment of the blast IF the invention did explode, the possibility of everything going haywire, the possibility of him having to lock himself away underground and cry his heart out for the next few years (the feat was entirely possible and he could totally do it because he had also calculated the risk of chronic dehydration and dying from heartbreak) if things got REALLY bad…

No, no, everything had been going perfect so far. Recently, nothing terrible had happened because of him… well, not that he knew of. Feeling his anxiety sink in like fangs from a hidden beast ready to prance, Varian counted off all that had transpired in the past few months.

He had saved Corona from Cassandra’s fear-inducing rocks!

_You wouldn’t have been able to do any of it without Rapunzel’s help. You were too afraid to do anything, you coward._

He had translated the Demanitus scroll and the missing incantations!

_Yes, only for it to fall in Cassandra’s hands, enabling her to wield complete power over the dark rocks, and wreak havoc in an earth-shattering battle with Rapunzel._

But…he had also figured out the hidden fourth incantation, and that had saved Rapunzel! Cassandra would have destroyed her had Rapunzel not used it!

The voice did not return, so he became certain, and thus refurbished his will with the hope that his luck would continue forever-that his father’s gentle gaze ablaze with pride and adoration, Rapunzel’s serenely warm smiles and kind endearments, Eugene’s playful banter, Lance’s affectionate aloofness, even the girls’ teasing antics-would continue forever.

_Relax, no problem, you’ve got this_.

Inhaling deeply, Varian allowed his worries to ease and his passion to seize the reigns, guiding him into the light as he stepped on top of “The Rooster” and presented his project the way he had rehearsed for hours earlier that morning.

“Ladies and gents, I give you…”

…

A disaster. It had been a disaster. He didn’t understand - he had been on a winning streak! Why was it that if he didn’t ruin something himself, someone else had to ruin it for him?

The Rooster’s various parts took three whole weeks to plan, design, and construct, not to mention long nights of not sleeping because he was constantly rethinking its plan, design, and construction!

He had been hoping Eugene and Rapunzel would help him piece the whole thing together, but they had went off trying to find Eugene’s imposter, leaving Lance temporarily in charge. Of course, Lance and the girls had been of little to no assistance, so he had spent the entire day consistently consulting the schematic, rushing from here to there, telling them what not to touch and where to put that bolt and _don’t touch don’t touch don’t touch that Lance I can’t not be trusted anymore._

It was nightfall by the time he was pipetting a few drops of Flynnoleum into the system (this brought back more unwanted memories that he did not want to deal with).

Returning to the group after having momentarily left to retrieve some supplies, Varian had been blissfully unaware of the empty barrel tossed to the side, eager to finally be testing out his invention. He lit the splint, consumed with the only welcome familiarity that impassioned his giddy enthusiasm - the testing of a new project.

This was his first purposeful addition to the castle, something that would help Corona in its greatest times of need. He would compensate for everything, prove what he had to offer beyond a mere helping hand that translated old scrolls and accompanied the princess on dangerous magical adventures. He…he was a pioneer, who was going to help change Corona for the better with his innovations. He _would_.

A shred of doubt stung him when the corner of his eye caught the two girls rushing away hastily, as though they expected the machine to explode. Had they come to expect that of his things that much?

No, they were probably afraid that the firing of the mortar would be loud and sudden. Kids were afraid of things like that.

He had no reason to stop now.

_Dad…Dad would be proud again_. The intoxicating, endless desire for more of those gentle smiles, eyes gleaming with pride and trust in him, only for him, overrode Varian’s nagging instinct that something was wrong.

_You’re right, Varian. You’re right this time and you’ll do right by them and you’ll prove them wrong._

Instead, he smiled at them calmly, his hope still alive, before donning a consoling expression, his voice certain and coaxing as he assured, “Oh, you don’t have to stand back. I calculated so that the blast is contained full-“

And then it happened. Varian’s world exploded in a spastic eruption of neon green, the roar of his creation tearing itself apart hammering excruciatingly into his ears and thrumming in tandem to his pounding heart. For a split second, he lost all awareness and perception, the barest slips of consciousness detecting that he had been knocked over (conveniently onto his bottom) with his arms splayed to hold him up. Instinctively, he opened his mouth to scream, gasp, call out, anything to break this sudden wave of crushing darkness, an endless chasm that taunted his thoughts and haunted his nights. But then, he was breathing fire - no, not fire, but a bitter smog that rammed into and clogged his lungs. His head spun as he thankfully came to, blinking confusedly as he attempted to register what had just happened through the shock and murderous headache.

A instinctive sting of frets, fleeting and abrupt, crossed his mind like a slap to the face, consuming his every sense of reason alongside the faint ringing in his slightly aching ears:

What had gone wrong?

Where had he gone wrong?

How could he be wrong?

The Rooster wasn’t supposed to explode, not with the amount of Flynnoleum he measured…

Wait. Coughing out a gust of the combusted gas, Varian’s rapid train of thought calmed at the obvious realisation, paving the way for a wave of annoyance. Infuriated, he yelled at Lance. Though Varian couldn’t quite hear his own voice-and he was quite sure Lance couldn’t either-he felt with certainty all he had to say, all he was saying, because _darn it, Lance, I said no more than one drop! One drop! Alchemy is about precision, Lance!_

The large man lay on his stomach, dazed and perplexed in his current state, and shouted something. Startled by the drum it rattled in his still-ringing ears yet not quite able to discern what had been spoken, Varian’s face twisted into a scowl, eyes narrowed in frustration as he caught the two girls surreptitiously giggling in the corner.

They had agreed to this…and they had thought it would be funny.

Though no one had been hurt-and he had to admit, if it were anyone but him who had invented the Rooster, he would have found the ordeal funny too- Varian fought the tears that prickled at the back of his eyes. Would people have thought it funny if he had screwed up and caused the explosion himself? Would people have excused his innocent mistake so easily?

How he wished he had that liberty, to be able to mess around again without fearing every minute of his inventions’ impending destruction.

Well, this wasn’t the first time Varian’s hearing had been temporarily compromised after an explosion. It would come back as quickly as it had left.

He could never be too certain, but that certainly didn’t stop him from begrudgingly stalking over toclean up the mess and continuing to rant angrily at Lance and the girls (the best part was that he didn’t have to listen to their excuses).

Then Varian had felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and he could barely contain his immense surprise at the sight of his father looming over him, his eyes riddled with frantic concern and distraught with panic as he frantically examined him. Unable to do anything else but stand there, Varian silently observed his father’s eyes with intent. Eyes trained to suspect and scout for injury, eyes that glittered when pleased and softened when worried, eyes that had held the softest endearments for him, only for him.

Varian wanted to bask in the comfortable familiarity that had now become his father’s attention…until he found himself watching in undulating mortification at the changing eyes, an uncomfortable familiarity from a time longer ago. Eyes once soft with concern that now hardened with subtle consternation, lurking just beneath the depths with coruscating flashes of dismay and doubt.

His father’s eyes averted to the damage behind him, and the familiar discomfort magnified into an immensely unsettling dread, as heavy and thick as lead, sinking in his stomach and coiling in his throat.

Those eyes closed, and that face twisted into a scowl, distressed and impatient. His father slumped his shoulders and shook his bowed head with something Varian had prayed he would never see again in his life.

_Disappointment_.

Varian inhaled sharply, face falling slack and eyes widening as the utter shock of what he was witnessing unforgivingly crippled his hopes. The brutal onslaught that followed another reeling bout of anxiety yanked unbidden tears to the brim of his eyes, blurring his vision, clogging the incoming threat that would some become a flood of helpless sobs, but his father was already clamping a stern hand onto his shoulder and steering him out of the mess, away from his friends (who, unbeknownst to him, were trying to apologize and explain), wordlessly forcing him on the long, silent journey home.

Though their feet shuffled in awkward silence, time had frozen into a painful standstill where Varian couldn’t breathe, couldn’t register what was happening, couldn’t understand-couldn’t believe how quickly he had managed to bring everything back to how it had been. It was almost as though he had been struck by the explosion all over again- something inside of him shattered, its shards scattered like his old equipment, digging into his sanity as every attempt to call for help, to breathe, only sucked in another wave of the smoldering fire.

Varian did not even notice that they had arrived home until his father appeared before him, his jaw set and gaze steeled as he began to speak animatedly, the expressions on his face shifting between an urgent and earnest solemnity with his unheard words.

Varian was only aware of the sound of blood roaring in his now throbbing ears, tandem to the fiercely disconsolate thundering of his heart. His head stung with the harsh awakening from the euphoria he had hoped would remain his reality forever.

The prolonged hearing loss and unabating reverberations of every surrounding noise only served to aggravate his distress and befuddle him further. While his father spoke his concerns, Varian could only hear an immensely muffled jumble of voice, clustered in his hazy mind and scattering frantically, desperately, for certainty and comprehension.

The questions buzzed like a resounding alarm across his whirring mind.

Was Quirin angry at him?

Should he tell him he couldn’t hear?

Was Quirin worried for him?

Should he tell him he was fine?

Did Quirin think it was his fault?

Should he tell him that it wasn’t?

Did Quirin think he wasn’t listening?

Should he tell him he couldn’t hear?

Did Quirin assume it had all been caused by his mistake?

The insecure nag at the back of his mind jolted his train of thought precipitately. He supposed he deserved that assumption…that automatic mistrust after everything he had done.

What if Quirin finding out about how he had irresponsibly lost his hearing only exacerbated his deteriorating opinion of him?

What if Quirin thought him stupid and reckless above all the other things he was probably thinking of him right now?

The horrendous thought made him want to curl onto himself, be swallowed whole by the earth.

_What was Dad thinking?_

His breathing imperceptibly quickened at the rush of stress that stung his head like an overly sweet smell from a dying explosion.

Did he look stupid and reckless?

Would it be better if he pretended like he could understand what he was saying?

What if he said the wrong thing at the wrong time?

His frustrations coaxed his innermost insecurity to grab the reigns, menacingly clawing up to the surface as he began to tremble uncontrollably in trepidation despite being helplessly petrified to the spot.

What could he possibly say when he couldn’t hear a thing?

Unable to suppress his despair, Varian forced himself to feign attention, gaze fixated intensely over his father’s frustrated movements, the hand waving and feet pacing and lips shaping words that he both dreaded and yearned to hear. His eyes traced the rapid pace of the lips, imagining the words that were being launched like a mortar from the Rooster-well, like it should have, had it not gone so wrong. The uncertainty, the sheer possibilities, bred more apprehensive unease than he had thought possible.

This was all so wrong - whatever he had thought of himself was wrong.

He gave up trying to make out the words and succumbed to the helplessly overwhelming self-contempt and uncertainty, numbly staring up at Quirin with heartbroken eyes as he yelled at him, shrinking more onto himself with every visible twinge of fury and trembling more as he agonizingly struggled to contain the urge that screamed at the unfairness of it all, that wanted to throw him at his father’s feet, crumple to his knees and sob for all he was worth.

As his cheeks flushed and his ears burned, scorching tears and disheveled hair obscuring his vision, Varian nodded along with his father’s words, no longer able to look at his face for fear he would give in to that ugly urge for good and make himself look more pathetic. The nodding came instinctively and continued effortlessly, the silent submission to whatever it was he had done far easier for him to do because even if he hadn’t caused this disaster, he deserved to hurt and be yelled at for something, and whatever Dad was saying or assuming was probably what he deserved to have said or assumed about him anyway, for greedily leeching off of his endless forgiveness and burdening him with this embarrassment that was his existence.

Then his father slammed his fist into the table, emitting a loud sound that resounded terribly throughout his injured ears, and Varian finally allowed a meek yelp of sheer horror escape him, every ache in his being and doubt in his heart abruptly fleeing.

Dad was going to hit him!

Dad was angry!

He had made Dad angry!

Varian finally burst into tears as the dreadful coil of pain broiling deep in his heart erupted into a new wave of astonishment, when the person he loved most confirmed in one minute the very thing he had feared and been trying to convince himself of otherwise for the past few months.

The dark place returned, engulfing him whole, and he was back in the damp and cold dungeons, recalling on his fingers, on his wrists, on the _empty empty empty_ walls all that he had done.

He had ruined it! He had ruined everything. There was no coming back from this (he conveniently forgot what “this” was). He was done. He was _done_.

That dark uncertainty lingered happily, quelling every apology he had practiced so that he could only sob silently, wordlessly, straining and hurting.

He would rather be unheard, for what could he possibly say for himself?

He didn’t deserve the trust, the forgiveness, the friendly endearments and proud smiles and warm hugs after the long sleepless nights.

The one familiarity-above all the colors, voices, faces that heralded his days and haunted his nights-that one familiarity would always stay, to diminish his certainties, propel him to constantly ruin everything he had worked for, self-destruct like everything he created.

He could no longer remember what it was that he was getting so worked up about, only that whether it was his fault or not, everything was going to go back to how it was before all of this had began-he would become the lonely freak, the awkward outcast, the disappointing son again.

How could anyone trust him after this?

How could Dad look at him after this?

As Varian trembled uncontrollably with trepidation, hiccuping with soft, pained, heart-wrenching sobs that he desperately tried to stifle with his hands clasped against his mouth, he felt shame at the quick successive streams of tears that cascaded down his stained face, no doubt spreading the dark taint of the earlier explosion over his cheeks and nose.

He didn’t register his father gasping in horror and falling to his knees in front of him. He didn’t hear his father’s gentle coax or soothing apologies.

But he did feel his father’s ever-open arms encompass him: arms that opened for him when he was freed from his amber prison, when Varian rushed to him sobbing after another restless night, when Varian wanted to hide from the happy world and the falling snow and the scornful sneers of people ready to give him what he deserved.

The excruciating anxieties that trampled Varian’s last trace of reason heightened to the point that they finally crippled him with reeling waves of debilitating shock and nauseating flashbacks, and he crumbled to his knees, his bowed figure wracking and wheezing with breathless sobs as he desperately tried to hug his father back, tried to be enough to cling onto the only familiarity he ever wanted to persist in his inconstant and volatile life.

He clung in resolute and unfaltering need to the only semblance that could hold his demons at bay, his heart aflame with screams of grievance and vexation because he wanted to deserve this…he wanted to deserve the hugs instead of the hardships, the smiles instead of the scorn, the fruits of his trying instead of the failures.

He wanted to deserve to not feel uncertain at every moment he felt he could not be heard.

Quirin’s reassuring hushes fell on deaf ears, but his affectionate caresses sung sweetly to Varian’s demons. For the first time that day, Varian allowed himself to succumb to the present moment and all it held, no longer afraid of resisting the dark hole he often found himself in whenever he relaxed: the gratifying warmth that seeped from Dad’s soft chest into his being as he sunk into the embrace, the scent of fresh vegetables and aging wood from the fur coat tickling his cheeks, the tenderness of those strong hands cushioning his head and gently rubbing his neck, the strength of those burly arms holding him together and in place as he fell apart.

The still-beating, steady yet powerful heart, the consoling vibrations of his voice-the sheer certainty of Dad being all that he needed despite being unable to hear all that was both spoken by him and unspoken by his son.

He was being pulled away - no, he didn’t want to be pulled away. He wanted to stay like this forever, keep what was, however unspoken and unheard, the comfortable portion of an uncomfortable reality he did not want to return to.

Using his thumbs to wipe away the still-leaking tears, Quirin cradled his face delicately between his large palms and carefully pressed his lips against the space between his eyes.

His hands still cupping his cheeks, his thumbs still applying that soft, familiar pressure on his tear stains, Quirin pressed their foreheads together and stared directly into his eyes.

Somewhere above the whirlwind of fright and heartbreak, Varian felt all breath leave him as he observed his father’s eyes don the same gentle gleam that reached into his spirit and brought out the best in him - the one he had become accustomed to as he was tucked into bed, as he was kissed to sleep, as he was consoled after being chased away by an angry villager.

Quirin spoke, no doubt something he didn’t expect an answer to. Even if he did, Varian knew staring at him more would only make things awkward.

Varian pulled away from him, moving to miserably wipe away the soot from his face, attention so focused on rubbing his dirty sleeve against his trousers that he didn’t register his father speaking to him until the man leaned forward and grabbed his arms gently, prompting his head to shoot up in surprise.

The man’s eyes flickered with realisation, shock paling his face and dropping his jaw.

He spoke again. Varian stared back at Quirin mutely, eyes flitting over his moving lips, brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to make out what the man was saying. He opened his mouth hesitantly, then thought twice as he quickly closed it again.

The soft glisten of concern in his father’s eyes returned, and he cupped his cheeks, his face twisted with urgency, the deep lines around his eyes crinkled into an intensely focused stare.

Quirin grabbed a piece of parchment he found nearby and a quill. Turning it over, he scribbled quickly: 

**Tell me what happened.**

"I can't hear." Varian spoke in a manner he hoped was demure and quiet, feeling the vibrations of his own undoubtedly diminutive voice crack from disuse. There was nothing quite as deeply unsettling as speaking without hearing his voice. It made him feel uncertain.

Quirin's urgent gaze softened with sympathy, and he wrote:

**Why didn't you tell me earlier? Or write?**

Varian's eyes flooded with tears again, his face slackened with a forlorn, depressed countenance. His jaw quivered and he inhaled sharply. How could he tell Quirin that he didn't have the certainty to tell him anything? To say that he wanted help? How could he tell his father that he was struck by a hundred doubts every time he even thought to open his mouth?

"I didn't know what to say."

**How long?**

Varian hesitated, and Quirin frantically tapped the quill against the parchment near his face-not in an irritated manner, but one that conveyed deep concern.

"Since-since the explosion. Lance got it too. I told him not to put too much." Varian's felt his weak, unstable voice shake again, incoming sobs beginning to fracture his sentences. Sniffling, he insecurely held his hand near his face, ready to wipe away his own tears. He didn’t want Dad thinking he was that helpless. Staring intently into his father’s attentive, gentle eyes,he spoke as earnestly as he could willingly manage, his only certainty gauged by the twists and turns of his father’s expression. ”I’m sorry, Daddy, I really am.”

Quirin did a double take, blinking in disbelief before shaking his head-thankfully not as tragically as earlier.

Varian did not know whether to breath a sigh of absolute relief or curl in self-reproach. At least this would clear up things for his father. _Don’t pin this on Lance_ , he reprimanded himself. _You shouldn’t have left him alone with the Flynnoleum._

…On the other hand, he very well couldn’t have asked Lance to retrieve his things either. Was asking Lance not to touch anything too much?

Was Varian possibly…not to blame at all this time?

The man cautiously raised a hand to clasp around his smaller one, moving it away from his face and lifting his chin, his concerned stare genuinely serious and inquiring yet no longer bearing those awful stern wrinkles.

He pointed to the first thing he wrote: **Tell me what happened.**

So Varian told him everything.

As Varian attempted to speak slowly and clearly, he observed his father’s eyes, fervent with concentration and engrossed in his narrative, his face heavily etched with consideration and clear flashes of…guilt?

Even though Varian had never felt more uncertain, speaking without hearing to a silent and fretful father (who, unbeknownst to him, was contemplating how his son must have felt at being berated without being heard), the fond and tender commitment in those eyes-those eyes that shone with warmth and pride, only for him and what he had to say- Varian clung to the certainty they offered. It was the certainty that he was being heard, and loved, and forgiven, despite the stresses and messes he caused, even indirectly. It was the certainty that Quirin was willing to believe that it wasn’t entirely his fault. It was the certainty that this man was willing to gift those proud smiles and soft gazes unconditionally despite who he knew Varian to be.

The certainty that someone thought him deserving of all that he yearned despite all he had done.

Quirin was still staring into his eyes, but not with attentiveness anymore. On the contrary, the man’s eyes were glazed with a demure and heavily despondent aura, unsettling Varian greatly.

Had he made Dad upset?

Had Dad not figured it out?

Was Dad still disappointed?

He tentatively patted Quirin’s larger hand, his plea timid yet urgent with the withering certainty he had left. “Daddy?” The man’s eyes blinked, and refocused on him, studying him, inciting a dark blush. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

His father’s lips did not move, and Varian’s heart thrummed unpleasantly at the possibility that he still harbored some remnants of his earlier terrifying rage, his certainty evaporating as quickly as his volatile chemical compounds when left uncapped.

But then Quirin merely attempted a small, consoling smile, closing his eyes and shaking his bowed head as he chuckled softly, sadly. So the certainty flooded in once more with the relief and joy it incited.

Unable to contain his newly refurbished boldness, Varian keenly held out his arms, and - much to his utter delight - Quirin scooped him off of the ground and pressed him securely against his chest, winding his strong arms around him tighter, cradling his head securely against his throat and underneath his chin as he fully encapsulated him in the warm embrace once more.

“You’re not going to make me stop inventing, are you?” Varian murmured, the soft vibrations in his throat barely audible to himself. He wasn’t quite certain if he was talking to himself or the man holding him so lovingly, but he did not need his father to speak to know the answer.

His father wordlessly tightened his hold, burying his face against his mop of stray locks as he shook his head.

Imbibed with this new euphoria that swept in with the gesture despite the murderous headache, Varian sighed deeply in contentment.

Right there, as his father’s reposeful caresses lulled him into the dreamless abyss once more, Varian wished he did not struggle to speak.

He wished he could tell his father that he clung to his every tender gaze and inch of affection, arduously memorized and greedily devoured every drop of pride and trust he showed his way for the crippling fear that he would never see any of it again.

That he came to Dad's bedside after a nightmare because he feared he would awake to the dark abyss that had sucked him into a whirlwind of arrant hopelessness.

That Dad was the reason he stayed up all night and ran around all day checking and remaking his creations.

That he stumbled in his attempts to keep up with Dad's long, powerful strides whenever they walked together only because he could no longer bear to see his father’s back as he walked away, _with his head bowed in shame and disappointment_ -

  
Sniffling, Varian sunk into the embrace again, vying for the secure blanket that his father’s now frequent hugs had become against the cold and timeless abyss of uncertainties he knew he could never truly escape.

Yet as he snuggled against his father’s stoic figure, he was certain of two more things:

Dad would always be his certainty.

And they would need a new table.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeesh, calm down boy. E̶a̶t̶ ̶s̶o̶m̶e̶ ̶s̶n̶i̶c̶k̶e̶r̶s̶.  
> Yes, I'm aware the explosion wasn't Varian's fault. But Varian wants to be angsty by hating himself.  
> Sorry for any mistakes, and for the long, overly descriptive descriptions. I'm learning. I promise.  
> No flames please!  
> Stay tuned for the final work of this series!


End file.
